


Soupmates

by comfortingclouds



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lawyers, M/M, Multi, Other, but ye cute coffee dates, forgive this, i am so SORRRY, i havent written in forever, kind of?? au?? even tho most of them were lawyers irl, literally this is going to be the longest thing ive ever written why did i do this, please forgive me for not updating i fully plan to add chapters this summer, props to bella for letting me yell abt this for ages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:27:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9255440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comfortingclouds/pseuds/comfortingclouds
Summary: When Alexander Hamilton lands a job at Washington's law firm, nobody - not his coworker, John, or the firm's partner, Lafayette, or even Hercules, the tailor down the street - expect him to be the catalyst that changes everything for everyone.





	1. Coffee

                Alexander Hamilton was a veritable whirlwind on the morning of January 7th, and unfortunately for him, the sky had evidently seen him whirring around and had decided to contest his ability to make a mess as quickly as possible. The snow that spun wildly through his gloveless fingers and hatless hair made quick work of the pressing heat he’d felt just moments before and let it dissipate in his chest. He shivered under his coat, curled his toes in his shoes. _I was born in the tropics_ , he thought, although it wasn’t with as bitter a sentiment as those who knew him might assume. He was glad for the chill.

                Glad as he was, he wasn’t done whirring. He stuck his hand in his pocket and sucked in a sharp breath when the frigid keys in his pocket shocked him, but quickly curled his hand into a tight fist. His other hand was more occupied – would the sky think he was waving, and would a cab even see him through the snow? He couldn’t see any cabs; he saw cars, plenty of them, but it seemed like this was one of those moments when New York decided it didn’t really _need_ to have at least three cabs at every intersection like it normally did.

                He brought his hand back down and fought the notion that everything was against him this morning. Obviously, not everything was against him. His destination was proof of that. But after waking up late, burning his already-measly toast, dropping his mug of coffee on his slippers and burning his calf in the process, losing his phone, slipping in the shower and landing hard on his ass, wasting ten minutes _finding_ his phone next to the tepid coffee pot, missing a phone call from Eliza – what did the voicemail say? He still hadn’t had time to listen to it – and tripping on the last step running down the stairs to catch the cab that had been sitting outside his building only to watch the yellow streak promptly take off, it was hard to feel as optimistic as he had when he went to sleep the previous night.

                He set off down the block. If there weren’t any taxis here, he’d have to find one somewhere else. The distance to the firm was too far to walk and be remotely on time, or he’d risk it and storm angrily through the white haze until he forgot he was angry at the world.

                He turned the corner and saw, to his relief and dismay, there was a cab parked right there, just a few yards away, with a mop of curly hair under a knit hat stuffing itself inside. “Wait!” he said, maybe more desperately than he needed to, and the cab door, which had begun to swing close, was pushed back open by a freckled hand. Alex ducked into the cab, and whacked his head against the curly mop of hair.

                “Ah, I’m so –“

                “– sorry!”

                Alex fell back limply against the seat and cradled his head for a moment. “That was my fault,” he said, and looked up when he heard a laugh. He saw freckles, and freckles, and curls, and freckles – and in the middle of all of that, he saw eyes so hazel but so warm they were gold. Soft, pale gold. And… good lord, did this man have freckles on his _eyes_? Specks of darker browns and greens loosely populated the whiskey-colored irises. Alex was reminded, briefly, for just a moment, of the pear fields back home, shining and ripe before harvest, a million different hues of earth. The person who sat in front of him, laughing softly and cradling his own forehead, was a renaissance of Alex’s home.

                “Oh, close the door, close the door,” the other man warned, and Alex jumped. He’d forgotten it was even open and that the cold was still behind them. He reached back and pulled it closed, almost slamming it into the side. The cab shook for a moment and Alex’s head sent a sore throb in response.

                “Are you boys good?” the driver asked, nonchalant, looking back at them expectantly.

                “Yeah, yeah,” Alex said. “Or, I am.”

                “We’re good,” the other man said to the cabbie, and turned back to Alex. He lowered his hand from his forehead with another chuckle and held it outstretched toward Alex. “I’m John,” he said.

                Alex took his hand eagerly. “Alex.”

                The cabbie hummed. “I’m Leo,” he said shortly, but happily. “Where are you fellas heading?” he asked, gesturing to the programmable GPS on the headrest of the passenger seat.

                “Oh,” Alex said, “Oh, right. Hold on.” He got out his phone and opened his email. “Let me find it.”

                “No problem,” John said, typing his destination into the GPS. “We’ll just do me first.”

                Alex hummed in response, trying to skim through his messages for the ‘welcome!’ email that held the address he was looking for, and looked up in time to see a familiar address at the end of John’s fingers. “Wait,” he said, and John paused, his finger hovering over ‘Route’, his face quizzical. “I think that’s where I’m going.”

                John pressed ‘Route’. “You’re going to Washington?”

                “Washington & Co. Law Firm, yeah,” Alex said. “You’re going there?”

                “I work there.” John laughed a laugh that was more breath than voice, and even though the storm was outside, Alex felt wind.

                “Today’s my first day,” Alex said, and when John’s eyes lit up they looked like the light danced off of them and onto the constellations across his cheeks.

                “Great!” Leo said, and the cab pulled out into the road. “Buckle up.”

                “Great,” John echoed, smiling broadly. “I think it’s cool that I get to meet you before your first day,” he said, and shifted himself left to buckle himself in. Alex fumbled for his seat belt for a moment before he found it and tucked himself tightly into the corner. The distance between him and John was cold, Alex hadn’t realized until now that their shoulders and legs had been touching after the collision. The seat belt was a much coarser alternative.

                “I don’t think it’s great that the first thing I did was attack you,” Alex said, almost laughing at himself. “But I think it’s fortunate you were getting into the cab when and where you did. I was almost stuck outside my building waiting until God knows when for another cab to work. I missed the first one.”

                “You missed it?”

                “It was sitting outside my building, and I fell down the stairs on my way.” When it had happened, Alex had been more irked and frustrated than anything, but saying it now from the comfort of a cab out of the cold with a coworker beside him, he felt amusement bubble in his chest.

                John wasn’t as amused. “Are you okay?” he asked immediately, leaning forward, his eyes darting up and down Alex’s frame as if to look for injuries.

                “I’m fine!” Alex assured him, and was only the tiniest bit disappointed when John’s eyes found his face and stopped running along the rest of him. He grinned. “That wasn’t the worst thing to happen this morning.”

                “It wasn’t?” John’s shoulders deflated a little, but his smile widened. “What was?”

                “You know, I think it was dropping my coffee down my leg,” Alex admitted. “Got a nice burn down my calf and didn’t get to drink any coffee. But,” he amended, “that wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t slept through my alarm, because I’d have had more time to clean up and make more coffee, so maybe it was waking up late.”

                “I’m mourning the coffee,” John said seriously. “You got more sleep than you planned, so it’s not like you’re missing out on sleep, but no coffee? Criminal. Unacceptable.”

                Alex shrugged. “There’s not much to do about it now. I’m sure they have coffee somewhere at work.”

                John wrinkled his nose. “No, don’t drink that coffee. Lee makes it and it always sucks, and he gets upset when anyone throws it out so it just sits there and gets cold.”

                “Lee?” Alex asked. “Lee who?”

                “Charles Lee,” John said. “He’s worse at being a lawyer than he is at making coffee. He’s a bad example of what the firm is like, though. Almost everybody is pretty cool. But the coffee isn’t.”

                “The coffee isn’t cool, it’s cold,” Alex joked. Leo smirked in the rearview.

                “That was…” John’s face of incredulity was more encouraging than anything. “Great. But also gross. But mostly great. But you know, iced coffee is a thing that’s good –“

                “Iced coffee is a thing to drink when the world outside is hot,” Alex refuted, “and hot coffee is a thing to drink when the world outside is cold. It just makes sense.”

                “But if you’re going to be inside drinking the coffee, does it matter?” John pointed out. “If you’ve got the heat up, why not just drink what you’re craving?”

                “Who craves iced drinks in the dead of winter?”

                “I feel like you’re teasing me,” said John.

                “Maybe?”

                “Well, consider this,” began the other man, his face all business now. “Let’s say, perhaps, that a gentleman had not had his morning coffee due to… we’ll call it spillage.”

                “I’m following.” Alex was snickering. “But I really want you to think about the word ‘spillage’ for a second. Just,” he said, putting his hands up innocently, “just think about that.”

                John poised his thumb and index finger in a check mark under his chin and stroked his nonexistent beard considerately. “It’s been thought about,” he conceded. “But I’m keeping it because I think it’s adorable.”

                “Fair.”

                “Now,” John continued, “let’s say that this gentleman were to somehow run into another gentleman and bump heads.”

                “Metaphorically?”

                “Nope, literally.” John then placed a hand to his forehead and pretended to nurse the ache that was long gone. “And ice is great when you want some swelling to go down.”

                “I see.”

                “So, it would come to pass between these gentlemen that iced coffee is a thing.” John smiled proudly, dropping his hand and wounded façade. “Our first gentleman could simultaneously nurse his concurrent headache and sip his long-awaited coffee!”

                “Is this a really long-winded way of convincing me to drink iced coffee in January?”

                “Possibly,” John hadn’t stopped beaming. “And if you’d want my company I’d be happy to give it. I bet I know a good place to get coffee closer to the office than you’d think.”

                And though Alex had been cooled just a few minutes ago, he was starting to feel very warm again. This heat was different from the heat in his apartment; there, it was pressing, constricting, heavy and thick, like humidity but from inside his chest. This warmth tingled more in his fingers and uncurled his frozen toes, teased at the back of his neck. _It’s just from being out of the snow for a few minutes,_ he told himself, _it’s totally normal to start warming up again_. He glanced at the heat and saw the needle turned as far down as it could be. _Still_. “That would be great. I’m always dead before my coffee. But,” he said, pointing his finger at his new mop-headed colleague, “I’m not getting it iced. I want good, hot coffee. The snow will reduce the swelling well enough on its own.”

                “That’s a good point. I didn’t think of that when I made my case.” John leaned forward toward their silent but not stone-faced driver. “Hey Leo, do you think you could actually go up one block further and leave us there?”

                “Yeah, man.”

                “Do we have time for coffee?” Alex asked. “I have to be in at nine.”

                John waved off his worry. “It’s only 8:30 and we’re basically there. It’s not even a five-minute walk.” He turned back and Alex saw in his eyes fields of wheat, brandy in a bottle, sunlight spattered on dried tree needles littering a trail. “We’ll grab it and go, don’t worry.”

                “I wouldn’t worry if it wasn’t my first day,” Alex said, and if he laughed a little to mask the genuine anxiety that lingered behind the warmth in his neck.

                John’s smile changed. It wasn’t proud anymore, but more kind. His eyes didn’t crinkle as much as they had; they seemed more to reach out. The color of coffee, lightened by sweet cream. “We can wait until lunch break, if you want.”

                Alex tugged at his sleeve. “If you want coffee now, we can do it now.” He fidgeted in his seat but smiled brightly; maybe if it looked like he was just kidding he wouldn’t feel bad about asking John to put off plans he was kind enough to invite Alex to in the first place.

                “No, no, you’re right,” said John. “It’s your first day, it’s better to make the best impression you can. We’ll wait ‘till lunch. It’ll be a break from paperwork for the both of us.”

                “So we’re going to the original destination then?” Leo asked, and put on his turn signal.

                “Yeah, if it’s no problem,” John answered as bright as the sun.

                “Of course not. This way the calculator tells me how much the ride costs!”

                John and Leo laughed and Alex chuckled despite himself. “I’ll pay,” he told John. “You’ve been crazy friendly and helpful, it’s the least I can do.”

                John shrugged. “If you want to, man, but I’m buying your coffee later.” He stuck out his hand for the second time in the past ten minutes, and Alex took it again.

                “It’s a deal.”

☕

                John Laurens loved the snow. South Carolina hadn’t seen much of it, but the few dustings or inches they were lucky enough to have seen could close schools and keep all but the most ambitious drivers off the roads. New York was different; here, there was a taxi coming around every corner, most lights still found angry honkers, and you could see people climbing up the subway stations either huddling into their coats against the cold or taking a brave, uninterested face towards the biting air and going on their way. Eyes down, feet forward. _There’s always somewhere to be_ , John thought. Sometimes, in weather like this, if he was lucky, he wanted to be nowhere but where he was. When that feeling persisted John tended to give into it.

                He had started off that morning with the complete opposite feeling. He’d woken up moments before his alarm and the sun outside glared at him. His apartment was cold ( _Did I really forget the heat again?)_ and he pulled his legs in towards him to nestle into his blankets like a petulant child for a few warm seconds before his alarm started screeching. John really identified with that aggressive, high-pitched, scratchy noise, and if he mocked his alarm clock a few times before giving up and untangling himself from his sheets to turn it off, nobody was there to hear it.

                A normal morning for John consisted of the same cotton-in-your-ears feeling hiding in every part of him. Everything felt muffled, felt far away, felt coarse and like he could get rid of it if he just pulled it out. So he spent every morning doing just that, and forcing more and more wonder and appreciation right in front of him so he could feel a little more present, a little more _there_. He’d read happy news articles, watch cute videos of animals doing silly things, listen to a happy song on repeat, anything he could think of to pull out that feeling of distance. Most days it worked. Some days he still left for work somewhat hazy. On that particular morning, although he loved the snow, it did nothing to ground him, and he had almost just missed the cab that pulled up to him as he walked out of his building on auto-pilot because he hadn’t even realized he’d put his hand out for one, and he’d almost missed that voice calling out “Wait!” as he got inside.

                As it turns out, getting your head whacked did wonders to bring you back to the present. John’s head had stopped hurting hours ago, but he still found his hand wandering up to touch the spot of impact lightly. Most days, as John filled out his papers and called his clients, he’d start to feel far away again. Lately his clarity of the world around him was so fuzzy he’d have to walk and drink the awful coffee in the break room just to remember what his voice sounded like. Whenever his coworkers asked him if he was alright, he’d laugh. “I’m just bored,” he’d say, “and started spacing out.” Spacing out was a good phrase to use, he concluded, because certainly the only thing that would describe that feeling remotely was space – but then, he also felt full, like someone had taken all of senses and blocked them with steel wool, rough and irritating but thick enough that that space was separate from him. But the world around him today was like crystal. His paperwork was there and then it was done and gone; his clients on the phone were real people really talking to him; he was doing his job and he wasn’t separate from anything he was doing. He felt like _he_ was doing today, and he wondered if he should hit his head more often every time he brought his hand down.

                John also wondered when, exactly, Alex would want to take his lunch break, or if anyone had explained to him where John’s office was. He started wondering these things a little before noon, and it took him about an hour to finish his last call and paperwork before he stood up and he realized he didn’t know where Alex’s office was. _I’ll ask Washington_.

                He didn’t have to ask Washington. As soon as he stepped out of his office, there was Alex, carrying more paperwork than John thought was possible and trying to turn the knob across the hall. He’d pulled his hair back into a ponytail – this morning his hair had been falling around his face, twisting slightly at the nape of his neck, speckled heavily with snow – and John’s couldn’t help the smile that spread across his cheeks. “Do you need help?” he asked.

                “No, I’ve got it,” Alex murmured, but when he turned around a little, he matched John’s smile and said, “Actually, yeah, could you hold some of this?”

                John had never seen eyes so brown that were full of so much light as they were when Alex recognized him. “Yeah, here.” He reached out and took the top half of the pile out of Alex’s arms. Alex huffed a little, and John may have stopped breathing for a second, but then Alex twisted his door open and they both sighed in relief. John had forgotten to breathe kind of often lately in the fuzz he fought through, but this was a very sharp loss of breath – he didn’t forget it so much as he found the capability beyond him in that moment. Alex waved his arm grandly into his small space that looked remarkably like John’s office, but cleaner, and with some boxes littering the floor.

                “Welcome, welcome,” Alex announced, crossing to his desk and dumping his half of the papers down unceremoniously. John followed suit a little more gently and a little more amused. “If you’ll look to your right, you’ll see an empty bookshelf, and if you look to your left, you’ll see an empty file cabinet. Looking straight ahead, you’ll see empty forms I need to fill out, and if you look right where I’m standing you’ll see an empty stomach.”

                “Make that two.” John’s stomach had yet to growl, but its lack of vocal discomfort was made up for by the fraying feeling that seemed to be crawling up his chest. He hadn’t remembered breakfast that morning. Like a lot of mornings that all seemed to blur together, sometimes his kitchen seemed like it was over a mountain or two, and John couldn’t muster the energy to climb his way there. He felt the same way after work, as if going to the fridge instead of his bed when he walked through his door was an unnecessary side stop. Lunch was really the only time he found it possible to grab something from the break room or step out for a bite. But today, lunch was not only possible, it was necessary; he hadn’t felt motivation or hunger quite so clearly in a while, and if his excitement was more for the company than the food, what of it?

                Alex’s nose wrinkled slightly when he grinned, John noted. “You said there was a place nearby?”

                “Yeah,” John said. “You still want coffee, right?”

                “That’s not a question, right?”

                They both laughed softly. John’s soft laugh was willowy, thin, almost frail; Alex’s was full, heavy, no matter what he laughed about. It was warm, the way Alex laughed, but John found a lot of Alex warm. Warm enough that maybe, if he was lucky, he’d get to the snow outside and want to be nowhere but where he already was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! just to clarify, on nevis/st croix apparently they call all crop fields "pear" fields even tho they arent pears and they call the crops their individual names still (so like avocados are still avocados but avocado fields are pear fields). and the crops alex was talking about were avocados!! I KnOw it's weird but they'll go more into it next chapter after their ~~date~~
> 
> also im sorry about john's sadness he's my son and this will get better!!


	2. "Pear"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex and John aren't done (literally) running into each other.

                “So,” Alex said, and gripped his coffee cup tightly. The warmth of the cup slowly colored his skin, pale from the walk through the cold, and he heard the quiet, gentle sloshing in his cup from the shiver that ran through his fingers. The shop was nice as coffee shops come; hipsters and middle-aged mothers had stolen all the cushioned seats and two-person tables that they used as desks.  He sat resignedly at the table for four in the center of the room. John sat across from him and took a sniff of his coffee – he closed his eyes and smiled, and Alex felt a little warmer, with or without the coffee he held. “How long have you been working for Washington?”

                “Hm,” John said. He paused for a moment, his eyes on the table in consideration, and then he looked back up. “A little more than a year.”

                “Where did you study?”

                “Charleston School of Law.”

                _Probably not the one on Nevis._ “South Carolina?” Alex asked, and raised his coffee to his lips. The steam that defrosted his nose warned him it was still too hot to drink. John spoke clearly, carefully, but sometimes in a moment where his smile took precedent over his voice, Alex could hear a touch of a southern accent.

                John nodded soberly. “Born and raised,” he said. His eyes had been bright just a moment ago, and though they seemed dulled a little bit, he kept the same soft smile on his face. “My family’s important down there.”

                Alex looked at him intently for a moment _. Is that why you left_? “Do you have a lot of family?”

                John didn’t look pained so much as he looked reluctant. “I had five siblings, but I didn’t see extended family much.” He drummed his fingers once on the side of his cup, his eyes downcast, before he looked up. “What about you?”

 _Had?_ “No family,” Alex replied, short and sweet, offering no further explanation and instead sipping a bit of his drink. The heat stung on its way down. “Ah,” he said, and put the coffee on the table, tilting his head up.

                “Hot?”

                “Yeah,” Alex said, and when he looked back down he met John’s eyes and smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging way. “But I’m from the tropics, so it shouldn’t bother me.”

                “The tropics?” John leaned forward a bit, and twirled the straw in his drink absentmindedly. “Where?”

                “Nevis.” Alex’s lungs felt bound together. Would John know where that was? Would he care? Would he suddenly and unexpectedly develop a passionate vendetta against immigrants?

                John looked at him blankly for a moment, and then his eyes crinkled, his smile widened. “Don’t think I’m stupid,” he said, “but I have no idea where that is.” He was laughing at himself, Alex realized, and he felt the tight band across his chest loosen a little.

                “That’s okay,” Alex assured him. “You know where Puerto Rico is?”

                John didn’t flinch, didn’t “Yeah, it’s off the coast of Florida, right?”

                “Kind… of?” Alex said. “Here, let me pull up a map.”

                He pulled out his phone and was almost, _almost_ , distracted enough to forget what he was doing: John’s chair scraped against the linoleum softly as he pushed it back to stand up, and he pulled the chair next to Alex out to sit in – when he did, for just a moment, his knee bumped Alex’s. “Sorry,” he said, pulling his coffee back towards him.

                “No, no, you’re fine,” Alex assured him again, and fought to keep the pitch of his voice from rising. If John noticed, he didn’t say anything. He set his phone on the table and slid it between their coffee cups. Jon looked down at the map, nodded slowly, and then smiled sheepishly again and tapped Alex’s phone to zoom out while Alex watched him read its distance from the other, bigger islands. He nodded much faster when he saw the Florida Keys.

                “Oh,” he chuckled, his voice light. “I see now.”

                “Yeah,” Alex mirrored John’s laughter. “It’s small.”

                “You were born there?”

                “Yep.”

                “When did you immigrate?”

                “I was sixteen.” Alex took another small sip of his coffee. “I finished high school pretty early, and came for college.”

                “You graduated at sixteen?” John hadn’t raised his eyebrows or widened his eyes – instead it was his smile that continued to grow. “So how old are you now?”

“Twenty-four.” _Twenty-five in four days,_ he didn’t add.

“Twenty-six.” John shook his head. “That’s incredible. How did you do that? You weren’t working, or anything, right?”

                “No, I was working,” Alex shrugged. “I moved to St. Croix when I was eight, and started clerking when I was nine –“

                “Nine?” John looked bewildered. “Does St. Croix have child labor laws?”

                Alex laughed a laugh that came from his gut. “I, I mean, yes? But I wasn’t wealthy or anything so nobody cared.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not complaining. I write a lot and always have, so I guess it was exciting for me.”

                John didn’t say anything, but he stirred his cup thoughtfully. He looked back up at Alex and Alex was reminded, again, of the pear fields back home. The windows of the shop were tall and wide, and the light didn’t filter before it smacked itself across John’s freckles; if it hadn’t been so beautiful, Alex would’ve maybe thought to shield John’s eyes from the sun. The sun, which, Alex had decided, was significantly less golden and bright than the honey in John’s eyes.

                “I clerked for this place called… I think it was Kortright and Cruger? I don’t know, I was little. But they had me work the books for the pear fields.”

                “Pears?” John asked then. “Is that a big thing on St. Croix?”

                “Well,” Alex hesitated. “It’s… _pears_ are not that big of a deal. But pear fields don’t just grow… pears…” he trailed off and felt heat stir behind his cheeks. John had raised an eyebrow this time, and looked quizzically at him, as if to ask him to elaborate. “Um, we just call all fields or orchards or whatever pear fields. I guess the exact fields I worked with were avocados.”

                “That’s really cool,” John said. He sat back in his chair, straighter, and started to pull his hair back into a ponytail. Alex acted like he wasn’t entranced by the bounce in his curls. “It’s cool to think about that, and that it’s just this small difference from America, and it’s not a big deal, but it still caused a little, like…” John searched for the right word. Or, possibly, he searched for the hair tie he had thought was on his wrist. “I guess bump in the conversation, but it wasn’t a bad bump.”

                “I understand,” Alex said. He _did not_ steal a breath to himself before he leaned forward and pulled the hair tie down John’s other wrist and handed it to him. He _did not_ have to remind himself to catch his breath when he pulled back.

                John grinned gratefully. Alex _did not_ lose track of his breath again. “So you came to America for college,” he said. “Where did you go?”

                “Columbia.”

 -

                “You called?”

                John rapped his knuckles against the door frame and waved warmly as George raised his head from his paperwork. George’s hands did not shake, poised above his paperwork as they were, for a moment before he brought them up to rest on his hair – russet-colored, but streaked with gray – and puffed his cheeks, his lips folded in. It wasn’t unwelcoming, but disconcerting, nonetheless. He let go of his breath with a sigh. “Laurens, come in.”

                “Everything all right?”

                “Yes, yes,” George waved him off. “This particular case is tiring.” He didn’t smile when John sat down, but Washington rarely smiled – instead, he leaned back and let his hand rest on his knee, an expression of comfort. George was reserved, but he wasn’t cold. “It doesn’t matter. I wanted to discuss the case I gave to Adams last week, the Deaubont case.”

                John shifted a tad to his left. “With me?”

                “Well,” George said, “discussing it with Adams himself doesn’t seem to do much. It would appear he finds the task of collecting statements to be overwhelming at the moment.”

                John nodded understandingly. “Right.”

                To his credit, George didn’t raise an eyebrow to the comment, but did huff out what could have been a laugh. “In any case –“

                “Heh,” John snickered. “ _Case_.” He shook his head. “Sorry, go on.”

                George, again, to his credit, did not roll his eyes. “I need to reassign the case,” he continued. “I felt it might be a good fit for you.” He picked a manila envelope out of the small stack to his right, and handed it to John, who took it gingerly.

                “Sir,” he began, and stopped himself. George was waiting for an answer, or a question, or _something_ , and John was locked in his head. He passed no judgment onto Adams for finding it just too much to compile the same endless, slightly contradictory statements. The faded corners of his vision would creep into sight whenever he tried to work, and sometimes he would stare at the phone for hours before he could convince himself to make a call that was necessary. When it rang he’d let it ring. He could feel his muscle memory do his paperwork, could tell he was making careless mistakes, knew he’d have to do it again later. He couldn’t make himself care. “I’m,” he started again, and took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m behind on my own cases,” he admitted, handing the folder back to George. “I don’t think I’d be any better for this right now.”

                George took the folder wordlessly. He collected his thoughts for a moment – or, John sincerely hoped he was collecting his thoughts, and not simply staring a hole through him – before he said, “Do you have any suggestions?” His tone was light. John didn’t relax quite yet.

                “Mm,” John hummed. “Maybe Madison?”

                “No,” George said, “I meant suggestions I could use to help you get back on schedule.”

                John felt meeker by the minute. “Oh,” he said. George was waiting again, and though John knew he meant no imposition, he felt as though every answer was a wrong answer. “No, I – I’m not too far behind, I’ll catch up. Just,” he added quickly, “not with anything else that big added to my load.”

                “I see.” His boss stretched out his arm to hand him the folder again. “Mr. Laurens, you underestimate yourself.”

                “Sir –“

                “You’ll share this case with Hamilton,” he went on. “I’m sure it’ll be a good case for him to start with, and you’ll be able to split the work. Besides,” he huffed another laugh when John once again took the folder, “Alexander doesn’t strike me as the type to let you overwork or slack off.”

                And just like that, the loose, fuzzy feeling behind his eyes got further away, the vignette at the sides of his vision lessened – it was as if he’d wiped off his lenses and cleaned out his ears, if haphazardly. He was familiar with that feeling when Alex was present. But, _Alexander?_ he thought. He’d never known George to call anyone by their first name, save his wife. “He isn’t,” John agreed. “Out of curiosity, sir, where did you _find_ him? He’d already done with his initial paperwork, and he’s been here a day.”

                George smiled a small, fleeting smile. “My colleague, Nathaniel Green, works at Columbia, where Mr. Hamilton studied,” he answered. “He, and his partner Henry Knox, wanted to hire him as a secretary, offered him a paid internship. When he turned them down, seeking a larger amount of responsibility, they referred him to me. I had, of course, already heard of him. His reputation preceded our meeting.” He nodded towards John. “How are you so well-acquainted with Mr. Hamilton?”

 _Mr. Hamilton. Must’ve just slipped up before_. “Oh, I ran into him before work yesterday. I saved him a cab.”

-

                Alex was certain of an almost. This particular almost was so very very almost that it was tangible in his chest – if someone were to cut him open, they’d find this almost sitting on his heart like a tumor. The majority of almosts people found were sources of uncertainty; how are you ever certain of something that might be fact and might be fiction? But Alex instead found them a source of drive. He didn’t treat his almosts like fact, which was something many people often confused in their heads, but his almosts were important to him the way they were: Not Quite. He was _almost_ there, he was _almost_ through, he was _almost_ good enough. Alex, himself, was almost sure of these things. Others took almosts with a grain of salt. He took almosts like they _were_ the grain of salt. Almosts were the disputable proof that he had to keep working. The few moments when he was caught up and the world stopped spinning so fast, he would dispute his almosts, and if he found himself the winner – sometimes a more exhausting feat than the work would’ve been – he could rest.

                Alex relied on alwayses. Without them, you were done. If you were there, you were through, you were good enough, where do you go? You can always go forward, there are always more trials, you could always be better or find someone who didn’t think your best was good enough. If Alex didn’t have an always in front of him, suspended like a toy in front of a playful cat, he wasn’t almost anything. He wasn’t anything at all.

                There were some almosts Alex couldn’t imagine being without. And there were, occasionally, new almosts that cropped up, when he lost sight of an always. Alex got his job at Washington’s and he found, suddenly, that he ran head-first into an always (again, literally), and it was next to him, not in front of him. What was he supposed to do with that? But _this_ almost, this _new_ almost, was so strong he felt like it was physically wrapping a fist around his lungs and dragging him forward. He couldn’t breathe, or stop bleeding between the cracks in those five fingers, but he could drag his feet and change direction. He would hurt, but he could steer.

                He almost felt like steering headfirst into another always when the world did it for him.

                “Fuck!”

                “Al – oh, sorry, I’m sorry,” John hurried, closing his office door out of the way quickly. “I didn’t – did I hit your head again?”

                Alex made a noise somewhere between mhm and eugh. “Are you trying to give me a concussion?” he joked, his hand on his head again. His head wasn’t quite swimming, but it was wading a little, and he was glad his eyes weren’t following suit.

                “No, I swear,” John said. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or not; a smile tugged subtly at his lips, ready at the word, but his eyes – still the same freckled brown of sunflower seeds – hadn’t relaxed. Neither had Alex’s head – the more time passed, even just those few seconds, the more it hurt.

                “It’s okay.” Alex made himself chuckle, and John may have noticed it was forced, but he smiled anyway. Alex’s vision doubled for a moment before he settled it and he took the folder John held out to him.

                “Washington has a case for y- well, for us, but you?” John was shifting his gaze between Alex’s face and the throbbing lump on his forehead. . “But me, also. So just. Us. Sorry, are you sure you’re okay? It’s really red.”

                “It hurts a little,” he admitted. “It’s not bad.”

                John looked unconvinced. “I have an ice pack with my lunch,” he said, “I’ll be right back.” He opened the doors very slowly and left it open. Alex had time to move to the seat at his desk before John reappeared with a small cooler. “Okay,” he said, and he set the cooler on Alex’s desk, next to the folder Alex laid down, and reached in. He pulled out half of a sandwich – perfect, Alex thought, that John would put avocado in his lunch today –and an ice pack that he immediately handed to Alex.

                Alex made the mistake of reaching for the false ice pack when his vision doubled again. He groped unsuccessfully at the air, and John took his hand and put the ice pack in it himself. Alex noticed the back of his hands weren’t much warmer than the ice he’d been holding. “Thanks,” he said, “I’m fine, just a little spacey.”

                “Do you want ibuprofen?”

                Alex shook his head and immediately flinched.

                “Right.” John pushed the sandwich baggie toward him. “Eat that, it’s not good to take meds on an empty stomach. I’ll be back.”

                Alex tried pressing the ice to his forehead, and although he’d never before experienced two different pulses at the same time, his chest and his head were definitely beating at different paces. The cold against the hot set the throbbing off in a footrace, and as the steps pounded in his head, he took the ice pack down and squeezed his eyes shut. This was more funny than anything else – Alex was more than capable of bouncing back from this pretty quickly, and he knew it’d probably go away in a few minutes no matter what, but as long as John was willing to share food (without prompting or room for Alex to politely refuse), he wasn’t complaining. Instead of pressing the ice directly onto his skin, he froze his hand over the ice and used that; it was a much softer, tolerable alternative. He fumbled one-handed with the sandwich baggie before he successfully pulled out his prize and bit into it. 

                Alex didn’t really forget to eat so much as he sometimes made the executive decision that whatever he was working on was more important than that one meal of the day. And, although he never applied this rule to coffee, breakfast that morning (and dinner last night) had fallen to his execution. He was only a little more grateful for this chance to eat than he was guilty for forcing John to give up his lunch.

                Alex was swallowing his last bite when John’s frame reentered his doorway quickly. “Success,” he announced good-naturedly, setting down a small pill bottle.

                Alex’s head, having had a few minutes to decide it didn’t need to run its own footrace, was already better. “Thanks,” he said sheepishly. “I’m okay though. It’s already mostly gone.” John’s eyes glanced down at the pain medicine before he met Alex’s eyes again, and Alex reluctantly took a pill to swallow.

                “Good.” John moved to sit down and then stopped.

                “Sorry,” Alex rushed, “of course you can sit down.”

                “Well, do you want to talk about the case now, or when your h-“

                “My head’s fine,” Alex said, and waved him to the stool. “Doors don’t have curls and a hat to cushion the blow, but they’re not cement.”

                John smiled a real smile, the same smile that made Alex think of sunny picnics and lazy bumblebees dancing a dizzy path above the grass. “Yeah,” John chuckled. “I’ve got a thing for hitting your head, I guess.”

                “Is that why Washington gave us a case together?” John blinked. “Are you actually an assassin who’s been hired to kill me with blunt head trauma?”

                “Oh, my g- no,” John covered his face in his hands and laughed. If it weren’t such a lovely laugh, and if he didn’t have just as many freckles on his hands as his face, Alex would’ve maybe felt the pressure in his stomach that sometimes showed up to let him know he was making a mess of things, whether or not he actually was. But John was too warm and too himself for Alex’s stomach to feel anything but the half of John’s sandwich he’d been given.

                “Good,” Alex grinned. “If you were, you’d be doing a terrible job. Most assassins don’t give up half of their lunch to their targets.”

                “Half?” John blinked again in confusion. “Oh, no, I –“ again, he stopped himself. “Yeah, half. It’s what I had left,” he chuckled, and leaned forward to grab the folder and open it.

                Alex spared himself a moment to realize that the sandwich had been cut in half, not bitten, before he was listening to John tell him about the contents of a folder, his curls falling in front of his eyes as he leaned closer to Alex, his freckles so clear Alex could count them – twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight – and almost smell the shampoo that reminded him briefly of vanilla. Vanilla was a good match, Alex thought, less outdoorsy than the fields and honey John reminded him of in other ways (forty-one, forty-two, forty-three), and softer, gentler. Sixty-three, sixty-four…

                “Are you with me?”

                “Yeah,” Alex lied, and then rubbed the back of his neck, sitting back in his seat and further away from John. “Except maybe repeat all of it.”

                “Your head?” John asked.

                “Yeah,” Alex lied again. “But it’s okay, it was just for a second.”               

                John sighed an amused sigh. “Okay. But,” he amended, “if you need me to stop, I don’t mind.”

                “No, it’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awwwwww john put avocado on his food bc alex told him about avocado!!!! also im so sorry i took so long, i only ever write this story in school and im dumb and dont do it at home. but!!! the next one will come sooner!!!!!!
> 
> also sorry about the dashes to break scenes, i tried to use the avocado emoji


	3. Muffins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sick of actual summaries so basically this is me sCREAMING because it took me 10 years to finish this chapter and it's crap pls ignore

                When Alex meets Aaron Burr, the man is decidedly, dangerously, neutral. About everything.

                Alex knew of the man’s reputation. He knew that his father owned a large portion of Columbia’s campus and that he graduated in two years from law school, a feat only attempted by one other person, who suffered a breakdown – someone who, coincidentally, was also working with the two of them currently. Alex had been stuck in Columbia for four years, graduating as early as he could get out, and he’d spent more than enough time arguing with an admissions office that wouldn’t allow him a more rigorous course. They didn’t understand that school was all Alex did. They’d tell him that the workload is insane and dangerous to his health to try it, and despite Alex’s pleas that someone already had dealt with the same course load, that he was more than capable, that _really_ he has _nothing else to do_ , a firm no had continually struck down his hopes. He didn’t approach Burr with any bitterness – he’d spent four years at school building an insanely impressive resume and studying in intense depth, and it was ultimately good for him – because he didn’t actually approach Burr at all.

                Of course he knows Burr works for Washington. He’d worked for Montgomery in Canada for a short time after graduating, but ultimately, the goal of every New York-taught lawyer is to work for Washington; and Burr, being as studious and determined as he must have been to graduate so quickly, was no exception to that. That doesn’t mean Alex was prepared to see the man rip his pants.

                Alex was not yet so familiar with the office and its staff that he visited the break room with any frequency, but John had made a compelling point. Lee took a sick day, he had told Alex, excitedly shuffling papers around looking for the case they shared. Alex could go make coffee for them that was, y’know, edible, while John looked for the file. So John was probably still looking when Alex walked through the doorway to the break room right as Mr. Burr bent a little too far down to look in the refrigerator drawers and caused the seam on the seat of his pants to split down the middle.

Burr and Alex both froze. Alex was torn between running away silently and not doing that, but before he could do/not do either, Burr had straightened up and seen him.

                “Ah,” Burr said.

                “I’m sorry, Mr. Burr,” Alex said, “I just came to make coff-“

                “Relax, relax,” Burr waved him off good-naturedly, a practiced smile stretching across his face. “Wrong place, wrong time. It’s definitely a memorable way to meet.” Burr took the few strides over to Alex easily. “I’m Aaron.”

                “I kn- I’m Alex,” he said, “Alexander Hamilton.” He went to shake Burr’s hand and found the other man’s grasp was walking the line between firm and loose quite well. “You went to the same school as me.”

                “I did?” Burr cocked his head infinitesimally to the side, smile unfailing. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’ve forgotten meeting you before.”

                “No, we’ve never met,” Alex assured him. “I, uh, I was in my first year a year after your last year, and I only ever heard about you from professors we shared. Also,” he amended, “you’re a little bit of a legend.”

                Aaron laughed a very calm laugh. “You don’t say. That’s very flattering.”

                “I, uh…” Alex was at a bit of a loss. On one hand – he’s meeting Aaron Burr! On the other – he met Aaron Burr by watching the man’s gray work pants split down a rather firm buttox to reveal even more neutral gray briefs.

                “I apologize for the unflattering situation we find ourselves in at the moment,” Burr offered. “If you wouldn’t mind postponing this discussion to another time, I’d like to take care of my wardrobe malfunction.”

                “No, of course,” Alex choked, and with that, Burr nodded politely and walked past him out of the doorway confidently – as if absolutely nothing was the matter. Alex let his head reel in the occurrences of the past minute before he stuck his head out into the hall just in time to see the back of Burr’s briefs as he vanished around the corner.

 -~-

                “Howdy,” Alex poked his head into John’s office and waved with the coffee cup he held in his left hand; his right hand struggled to hold his own coffee cup and the brown sandwich bag he kept behind the door, that stood slightly ajar – Alex’s cue to traipse across the hall.

                When John looked back at him, he grinned. “Good morning,” he said. “Are you taunting me with coffee?”

                “No, I’m blessing you with coffee.” Alex shuffled past the door and John met him a few steps forward, reaching for his coffee as Alex attempted to reposition the load in his hands. “It’s hard to hold this and this stuff at the same time –“

                “Because you have baby hands,” John teased. He held the coffee cup to his lips and closed his eyes – Alex felt a conflict between the relatability of smelling the liquid alertness that sat between his fingers and how interesting the many freckles dotted across John’s nose were, because they looked like they were dancing when his curls fell in front of them.

                “You have the hands of a giant,” Alex complained. “My hands aren’t even that small, they’re just tiny next to yours.” He held out the sandwich bag toward John and raised his eyebrows at the same time he raised his cup to his mouth and took a sip through his smile.

                “You didn’t have to,” John said, quietly, Alex noticed, before he took the bag and set it on his desk. “Also,” he retorted, “My hands only look huge because yours are so small. They stopped growing when you did!“

                “You are _so much_ shorter than me –“

                John stood defiantly on his toes. “Am not.”

                Alex shook his head mockingly. “All that coffee’s stunted your growth.” He sipped his own coffee, raising his eyebrows again, leaning against John’s library shelves nonchalantly.

                “Is that your master plan?” John fell back onto the balls of his feet and held his coffee out as if it was poisoned, all the while fighting the smirk that hid in his freckled cheeks. “You only buy me coffee so I stay shorter than you.” He eyed his cup, up and down, flicked his gaze back toward Alex – whose cheeks were warming by the second – and then sipped his drink with a hyperbolic caution that made Alex swallow the laughter bubbling in his chest.

                “Somebody has to be,” Alex joked, and John’s eyes widened abruptly and he clamped a hand to his mouth; he swallowed hard, and choked out a laugh. Alex could’ve snorted if he hadn’t choked on his laugh as well.

                “Are you two dying?”

                When Washington appeared in the door, John took a step back – something Alex may have noticed, but decided to ignore on behalf of his poor little heart. He turned his smile instead on his boss and quipped, “Not yet, but this case might kill us.”

                “I see you’re working very hard,” Washington said, not unkindly, but with sarcasm that Alex could tell surprised John. “I can’t be responsible for your murders, now, so if you gentlemen wanted to step into the conference room for a few minutes, I’d consider it appropriate.”

                “To save our lives,” Alex deadpanned, and he and Washington nodded at each other somberly, to John’s continued amazement.

                “Of course. Only because this is life or death.” Washington made to leave the doorway, and then paused quickly, his foot angled back out toward the hall. He turned over his shoulder. “Martha brought muffins,” he added, and with that he was gone.

-~-

                John liked Washington. He liked Washington plenty. But he seriously doubted he’d ever be as comfortable with the man as Alex seemed to be right off the bat. They could joke – Washington had cracked back at Alex’s frankly daring remarks, freely, of his own volition, and had been basically smiling while he did it. John wasn’t quite sure if he was jealous, perturbed, or amused more than the other choices.

                He watched Madison shake hands with Alex, and he watched Alex step back not exactly nervously when Madison coughed, like he always did, into his handkerchief. He watched Burr and Alex – mostly Alex – exchange (awkward?) pleasantries for a moment before Alex was making a beeline back to John because Charles Lee stepped in.

                “I thought he was out for the day.” Alex wasn’t hissing, but if he had carried a little more malice in his tone he would’ve been. He reached to his left and picked up a muffin out of the basket, and his hand was on John’s arm, pulling him away when their coworkers descended on the treats.

                “He was earlier.” John shrugged. Behind the slightly muffled, invisible wall that was once again finding its way into John’s head, he felt the warm of Alex’s hands on his arm. “He must have come later.”

                Alex looked and John for a moment, gauging him. “Why don’t you like him?” he asked. “I know you said he’s bad with coffee and his j-“

                “We went to university together and almost got expelled for fighting,” John said, and if he felt a little devilish watching Alex’s mouth part in shock at his nonchalant tone, he felt a lot more devilish when Washington called everyone’s attention just a second later. The look on Alex’s face was priceless.

                John took a seat, and the other occupants of the room followed suit. “Thank you all for eating Martha’s muffins,” Washington began. “She’ll be very happy you enjoyed them.”

                “They’re delicious,” Burr piped.

                “I’m glad.” Washington acknowledged him briefly, and then immediately raised his eyes back to the group. “Now, as you know, Mr. Jefferson has been working out-of-house for the past few months. He took part in a brief non-equity partnership to help start up a new branch of a sister business, Chavaniac Avocats & Co., that is opening in the United States next month under the title Chavaniac Law & Co.

                “Now, I tell you about this, because on March first, we’re going to begin implementing a few changes. You have roughly a month to prepare for these changes. Nothing too drastic, but this company originates in France, and is new to American law.” A few murmurs broke the elasticity of his speech, and Washington paused. “I’ll assure you now that their lawyers aren’t new to the practice of American law, but the firm itself has never extended this far before. We’re going to hosting a partnership conference here, led by myself and the head of this branch, Monsieur Lafayette.”

                “Why are we taking this on?” Alex whispered to John. John could only shrug; Washington normally didn’t like to be quite so tightly knit with business partners, but he seemed to have embraced this particular change.

                And then Washington was outlining these new changes, and John couldn’t help but look at Alex’s ponytail, the back of his friend’s head while his friend payed attention. His vision wasn’t fuzzy on the edges, but his hearing was – steel wool scratched at the sides of his brain and he tried his best to stay present. He looked at the reflections of the fluorescent lights on the glossy table’s surface, he read the titles of various papers people had happened to bring with them, and he had started counting the wrinkles in Alex’s pinky finger on the joint when it moved, and he looked up, and the meeting was over.

                He wished he was more present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i aM SO SORRY ALL MY !! HCAPTERS EN1!! SAD


End file.
